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Our family friend has always been a truly outsized personality. Witty, unsentimental – and hardly ever declining to a further glass. During family gatherings, he’s the one chatting about the newest uproar to catch up with a member of parliament, or amusing us with accounts of the outrageous philandering of different footballers from Sheffield Wednesday over the past 40 years.

Frequently, we would share the holiday morning with him and his family, prior to heading off to our own plans. However, one holiday season, about 10 years ago, when he was scheduled to meet family abroad, he tumbled down the staircase, whisky in one hand, suitcase in the other, and fractured his ribs. Medical staff had treated him and instructed him to avoid flying. So, here he was back with us, doing his best to manage, but seeming progressively worse.

The Day Progressed

The hours went by, however, the humorous tales were absent as they usually were. He was convinced he was OK but he didn’t look it. He endeavored to climb the stairs for a nap but found he could not; he tried, carefully, to eat Christmas lunch, and did not manage.

So, before I’d so much as placed a party hat on my head, we resolved to get him to the hospital.

We thought about calling an ambulance, but how much of a delay would there be on Christmas Day?

A Deteriorating Condition

By the time we got there, his state had progressed from peaky to barely responsive. Fellow patients assisted us guide him to a ward, where the generic smell of hospital food and wind filled the air.

The atmosphere, however, was unique. There were heroic attempts at Christmas spirit in every direction, despite the underlying depressing and institutional feel; decorations dangled from IV poles and portions of holiday pudding went cold on nightstands.

Cheerful nurses, who no doubt would far rather have been at home, were working diligently and using that lovely local expression so unique to the area: “duck”.

A Subdued Return Home

Once the permitted time ended, we made our way home to lukewarm condiments and festive TV programming. We watched something daft on television, probably Agatha Christie, and played something even dafter, such as Sheffield’s take on Monopoly.

The hour was already advanced, and snowing, and I remember having a sense of anticlimax – was Christmas effectively over for us?

Recovery and Retrospection

Although our friend eventually recovered, he had actually punctured a lung and subsequently contracted deep vein thrombosis. And, while that Christmas is not my most cherished memory, it has entered into our family history as “the Christmas I saved a life”.

Whether that’s strictly true, or contains some artistic license, I am not in a position to judge, but the story’s yearly repetition certainly hasn’t hurt my ego. And, as our friend always says: “don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story”.